


i see fire

by Rethira



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Rethira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ephraim, with his newly scarred cheek and his smiling face, stares into the fire with blazing eyes and murmurs, “It wasn’t your fault, Lyon, everyone knows that,” and Lyon... Lyon will let him keep that sick little lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i see fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raphiael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphiael/gifts).



> hey raphi, happy nagamas! i gotta tell you, i was really happy to be writing for you again, so i really hope you enjoy this
> 
> happy new year everyone!

Lyon wakes up. It is not gentle; he is awake all at once, awake and aware and _himself_ and the relief of that knowledge is only overwhelmed by the terrible realisation of what he’s done. Lyon’s eyes snap open, still unseeing, and he twists to be sick over the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking and fingers clutching at the thin covers. His stomach cramps and twists, empty, and a warm hand rubs his back and a gentle voice murmurs soothingly, and Lyon is eased back down on the bed. His eyes slide shut again. The other person cleans up his mess without complaint.

“Water?” Lyon asks, and a glass is lifted to his lips and he’s allowed to drink, slowly, carefully. Afterwards, a soft cloth wipes his mouth clean and his head is lowered back against soft pillows.

All this, Lyon thinks, all this after what he’s done. It hurts to open his eyes, the light too bright and his eyes too sore, but he forces himself to do it.

At first, everything is a blur. Bright, white and painful; Lyon winces and blinks, tries to get his eyes to focus until finally he can make out a bright smear of blue.

Something goes tight in his chest.

“Eirika?” he asks, and he hardly recognises his own voice.

The laugh that comes is far too deep to be Eirika. There is a vice around Lyon’s heart, abruptly. It cannot be, he _wouldn’t_ – and yet it _is_ Ephraim who says, “It’s the other twin, Lyon,” and who brushes the hair from Lyon’s still sore eyes. “How are you feeling?”  
 _  
Terrible_ , Lyon wants to say, because he does. He feels as though he’s been taken apart and put back together, and that’s only on the outside. But this is _Ephraim_ and-

“I could be worse,” Lyon says, _I should be worse, I should be dead_ , but Ephraim just brushes his fingers over Lyon’s hand and tugs the blankets up.

“Good,” Ephraim says, “that’s good,” and then he’s leaning over Lyon and Lyon _wishes_ he could make out the expression on Ephraim’s face because he only has a second’s warning before Ephraim presses a clumsy kiss against Lyon’s cheek.  
 _  
Listen, Ephraim,_ the- He had said. _I’ve always loved you. I’ve always hated you._

“Ephraim-”

But Ephraim has already risen to his feet, and, striding to the door says, “I’ll send a healer to check on you, and I’ll be back soon, Lyon.”

Lyon can’t see if he smiles as he leaves.

 

The healer who visits is a golden haired cleric from Grado; vaguely, Lyon thinks he recalls Him ordering her execution.

“I’m sorry,” Lyon says to her, but she doesn’t reply. This is proper. Either Lyon is an Emperor now, in which case a cleric of her station should hardly be in attendance, or... they’d called Him a demon. A king of demons, _the_ Demon King, and perhaps it had been easier to accept the atrocities he’d committed that way. Of course a demon should do those things. It was a _demon_ , after all.

But Lyon is not a demon, and he had committed those same acts, so... what does that make him?

It is little wonder a cleric does not wish to speak to him.

She leaves as soon as she can. A short while later, Knoll comes to sit with Lyon.

Lyon recalls this execution order with rather more clarity; it is something of a relief to see that Knoll is alive.

Knoll waves the apologies off. “I knew you were not yourself, your Highness,” he says.

It is a partial truth; He had lived in Lyon’s mind and body since the day they sundered the Fire Emblem, but in those early days Lyon had been more himself than- than later on.

Knoll has also gained some knowledge of the staff since they last spoke; “What of the cleric?” Lyon asks, with some confusion.

“She taught me a little,” Knoll allows, “but there are many wounded. Her talents would be better served elsewhere. It has been my honour to serve as your physician, your Highness.”

“Oh. I- thank you,” Lyon says, _you should have let me die_ , “but surely- how long have I been sleeping?”

“It has been two days since we returned from the Wood,” Knoll explains.

Only two days? Then it is little wonder the cleric hurried from him as soon as she was able. They will still- they _should_ still look at him and see _Him_. It’s. It’s a miracle Ephraim doesn’t.

Lyon closes his eyes, sore as they are, and asks, quietly, “How many died, Knoll?”

Knoll is quiet for a long moment. But he was always good and loyal, and that was why he had to die. Lyon can hear him lick his lips. “We have not counted yet, your Highness,” he replies, “but we expect it will be very high.”

“Yes,” Lyon agrees, “I expect it will.”

 

Knoll stays throughout the night; Ephraim does not return. At least, not while Lyon is awake. Lyon sleeps for a time, and it is a relief. While He inhabited Lyon’s body, there was no sleep. He didn’t need it, and so Lyon didn’t either. Now, to sink into darkness is... bliss.

There is a thin gruel for Lyon to eat in the morning. It’s tasteless, only slightly thicker than water, but better than anything He had ever eaten-

It’s easy, really, to get caught up in his own suffering. Easy and a failing, especially holed up in a stark empty room, still healing from whatever magicks were used to keep him whole after the Demon King shucked his body at last.

After he has eaten, Lyon folds his hands on the blanket and asks, his voice still irritatingly weak, “Where is Eirika?”

Knoll is silent. Frozen, almost.

For a terrible, startled moment, Lyon fears the worst.

But Knoll says at last, “She is not here, your Highness,” and the knot of terror eases, briefly, “she disagreed with Prince Ephraim on... a certain matter. I believe she has already set out to Renais.”

Lyon nods, and lets Knoll leave. He is not a fool, however. There is only one thing Ephraim and Eirika could have argued about; Lyon himself. And whatever the resolution to it, Ephraim now- now kisses Lyon like Lyon deserves it, while Eirika marches on Renais with barely a rest after what _must_ have been a hard fought battle.

It’s... something to think about.

And Lyon has little else to do. Knoll is a devoted healer – excessive, Lyon begins to think – but a stern looking sage collects him around mid-morning with a gentle admonishment of, “There are other patients, Knoll,” and after that Lyon’s visitors dwindle down to two maids and one monk who goes very pale when he sees whose room he is in.

Ephraim reappears at lunchtime, bearing a tray set with two meals; Lyon’s eyes are well enough by now that he can see both the wide smile on his face and the ugly scar bisecting his cheek.

“It’ll heal,” Ephraim says when Lyon asks, flapping his hand unconcernedly, “and it looks much worse than it is. Knoll tells me you’re much improved.”

He hurts still, aches in a bone deep way – in truth, Lyon has not examined his injuries too closely.

“I’ll survive,” Lyon says, and it doesn’t come out grim but joking, and makes Ephraim smile. The gruel sours in his mouth, but he chokes it down anyway. It hurts to look at Ephraim.

“We all will,” Ephraim says, and he looks so _happy_ -

“Where’s Eirika?” Lyon asks.

Perhaps the worst thing is that Ephraim’s expression doesn’t flicker for a moment. “She’s returned to Renais. As soon as the wounded are well,” and Lyon knows, he _knows_ Ephraim means _as soon as_ you’re _well_ , “we’ll join her.”

Lyon nods, slowly, and finishes eating.

Ephraim talks for a while longer, but he doesn’t really say anything.

 

They stay a week longer in Rausten; by the end, Knoll hardly leaves Lyon’s rooms. “On Prince Ephraim’s orders,” he says, looking surprised when Lyon asks, “you are to come first, of course, your Highness.”

Lyon could have ordered otherwise – but what would have been the point? Ephraim would simply order another healer into service and Knoll was, at the very least, willing.

Lyon’s breastbone _was_ shattered, he learns. It is heartening, after a fashion, to know that he did not imagine such a thing. It still does little to explain how he still lives. Knoll is cagey. Ephraim is evasive. No-one else will speak to Lyon; he still cannot fault them for this. If Lyon were in their position, he would be equally unwilling to speak to himself.

They leave at night, in a small company. Far too small, Lyon thinks. Ephraim rides his destrier near the front of the company, trailed by a pair of knights, and but for the banner carried by one of them you would never know this was a royal party.

It is a long journey to Renais.

Lyon keeps his hood up after they cross the border. Knoll frowns, but does not stop him. Ephraim hardly seems to notice. Neither of Ephraim’s knights will get too close to Lyon, and all the other soldiers – a mix, as far as Lyon can tell, from Renais and Frelia and Grado – are... well, soldiers.

The day before they are due to reach the castle, Lyon sits beside Ephraim and asks, quietly, “What will happen to me once we reach Renais, Ephraim?”

Ephraim looks mildly confused. “Happen to you?”

“Yes,” Lyon says, “what shall happen to me? For what I’ve done.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Lyon,” Ephraim replies, and he sounds almost angry, “it wasn’t _you_. It was the Demon King.” He raises his voice. “Everyone knows it was the Demon King and not you.”

Lyon looks at Ephraim then, and can see hardly anything of the boy he knew once. _What have I done to you?_ he wants to ask, because of course this is also his fault. Responsible not only for the deaths of hundreds, _thousands_ , the release of an ancient evil and the practical extinction of an all but forgotten species, but also for this.

Ephraim, with his newly scarred cheek and his smiling face, stares into the fire with blazing eyes and murmurs, “It wasn’t your fault, Lyon, everyone knows that,” and Lyon... Lyon will let him keep that sick little lie.

 

Eirika hugs Ephraim. She bites her lip and smiles at Lyon, but he can see her, searching his eyes for any sign of Him.

Lyon doesn’t tell her that He’s gone.

It’s a relief to see her. She’s... well, he loves them both, of course. But he can trust her now.

The second he’s left alone with her, Lyon asks, “Will you tell me? Ephraim refuses to.”

The smile on Eirika’s face falters the way Ephraim’s hadn’t. “I... I see.” She swallows, loudly, and goes to sit at her desk. It’s tidy, neat. “There was... Lady Myrrh had it. Recovered it. For Ephraim. I don’t- I don’t think she knew what he’d do with it.” Eirika’s expression turns a little sad. “She cried when he asked- said that we shouldn’t. It must have hurt her very terribly indeed, but....” Eirika shakes her head. “The staff was ancient, far older even than Myrrh was. But,” and Eirika shrugs, “it brought you back.”

Lyon shakes then, his skin crawling, and presses his hand flat over the breastbone he had _felt_ shatter – it had been the truth then. He _had_ died on Ephraim’s lance. Lyon does not tear at his clothes, for decorum’s sake. But even if he did, Lyon knows this; he would not find a sign of it. He would not find the scar, would not find a single mark to tell of where his chest was torn open on the point of Ephraim’s spear, where his _heart_ was ripped apart-

“He should have left me dead,” Lyon says, _sobs_ , “it would have been better-”

Eirika is around the desk in a flash, hands on Lyon’s shoulders, and he _knows_ she cannot deny this because she _agrees_ , but she says, “What’s done is done, Lyon, and you are- you are my dear friend, and I would not,” and then she cannot speak through her own tears.

By the time Ephraim returns, they are no longer crying; Eirika’s eyes are suspiciously red, and Lyon cannot bring himself to look at Ephraim.

“I’m not hungry,” Lyon tells him, and retreats to his room early.

 

It is sickening, he tells himself. It had been sickening even when He was in Lyon’s head. Watching the thing that used to be his father sit on the throne... it had disgusted him, deep down. Not... not at first. At first, Lyon recalls, he’d been... pleased. But later, when the thing began to fall apart, and forget. Later, when He had been Lyon more than Lyon had been Lyon.

Raising the dead is foul. It is vile, and disgusting, and sickening.

Except.

Except Lyon lies in bed, and he thinks of Ephraim, and he thinks of Ephraim raising _him_ , and it... it fills Lyon with _glee_.

What had it been like? Had Ephraim’s lance still pierced his chest, or had Ephraim pulled it free, tried to make him look presentable? There must have been blood – Lyon remembers choking on it, feeling it on his lips and in his mouth.

And then the staff, and his crushed and ruined chest healing, breathing – and Ephraim not caring what Eirika said, or what the dragon said, or what his very own eyes said.

Ephraim just wanting Lyon _alive_ again, even – and Lyon finds his breath hitching and warmth pooling low in his stomach – if it was a mockery of life. Ephraim wanting _him_ , oh, and it’s terrible but Lyon slides a hand between his legs and touches himself until he comes with a bitten off cry of Ephraim’s name.

The disgust comes back by degrees as he cleans himself up.

 

Lyon allows himself one more day of avoiding Ephraim – now for both thoughts; the horror of being brought back by him, and the glee it fills Lyon will – but Lyon knows he cannot avoid it forever. He sits beside Ephraim as normal the next morning, pleased that at last his shakes seem to have stopped, and asks, “When will we continue on to Grado?”

Ephraim frowns, just slightly. “Soon. I was going to let you rest here longer.”

Lyon nods. “I am rested, Ephraim. But being so close to home... I can only think of how it must be suffering. Do you know who rules there now?”

It’s not surprising that Ephraim shakes his head. “Eirika will know,” he says, as if she hasn’t had her hands full with Renais since returning. He smiles. “They’ll be glad when you return.”

He is terribly naïve sometimes.

“We should plan to leave this week,” Lyon murmurs, and then there will be reparations to think of and amends to be made, not to mention a ruined country to rebuild.

And the quake is still coming.

All of this, and the quake is still coming; it makes Lyon want to laugh. Grado will still lie ruined in the end, perhaps worse than if he’d done _nothing_.

What was it all for?

“Are you sure?” Ephraim asks. “You still look a bit pale.”

Lyon tries to smile for him. “I can’t abandon them again, Ephraim,” Lyon says.

 

The night before they leave for Grado, Ephraim comes to Lyon’s chambers. He’s loosely dressed, as if he was preparing for bed and then remembered something. There’s a ropey scar on his shoulder, just visible where his shirt has slipped. Lyon wants to sink his teeth into it.

“I have a gift for you,” Ephraim says, “close your eyes.”

Lyon half expects a kiss in the darkness, but Ephraim instead lifts Lyon’s wrist and fastens something cool and metal around it.

“You can open them now,” Ephraim says, and Lyon does and stares down at the golden bracelet on his wrist, and wishes it _had_ been a kiss because that would have been better, “it’s useless now,” Ephraim explains, “just a pretty piece of jewellery. But I hope you’ll keep it and think of me.”

“Ephraim,” Lyon starts, but can’t find anything else to say. What is there to say? The Demon King said it all already. Instead, Lyon reaches up and pulls Ephraim’s mouth down to his – _I’ve never kissed anyone before_ , he panics, but Ephraim doesn’t seem to have either – and they trip somehow onto Lyon’s bed, teeth banging and noses squashing and Lyon pulls back and hiccups, “Sorry,” before Ephraim’s kissing him again.

Ephraim’s hands are warm on Lyon’s skin, and Lyon’s hands must be cold on his because he gasps when Lyon presses his hands flat on Ephraim’s stomach. Their clothes are pulled and pushed off, Lyon briefly grateful he’d already changed for bed, and Ephraim rolls Lyon onto his back and kisses the spot where his lance had finally pierced Lyon’s chest. He pauses there, lips pressed against Lyon’s skin, and he must be remembering the blood.

“There’s no mark,” Ephraim whispers, the first time he’s mentioned it at all. He trembles, just slightly, and looks up to stare into Lyon’s eyes.

“Kiss me,” Lyon asks, and Ephraim does.

 

He tries. It helps, in the end, that in the beginning Lyon had had any troublesome lords or advisors executed. The few that remain are cowards and weak, terrified of him, even without Ephraim’s – foolish, _foolish_ and unwanted – promises of support during this difficult time.

It won’t last.

The first thing to fail isn’t even in Grado.

It’s in Renais; Ephraim arrives one day, trailed by his two knights and says, “I had an argument with Eirika.”

Lyon imagines it sometimes, when he’s in bed with Ephraim. “Our people despise him, Ephraim,” Eirika’d have said. “You dote upon him so! Soon there will be riots in the streets!”

And Ephraim, well, Ephraim would have listened to her and said, “He’s my friend,” or, “I love him,” or, “He is dear to me beyond words,” or, and this was Lyon’s very favourite, “I brought Lyon back from death, and I would do it again.”

Ephraim stays in Grado long past any reasonable welcome. He sends his knights back to Renais and joins the rebuilding efforts, and is a far more welcome face than Lyon is. Lyon is not jealous – it is not easy to forget that Ephraim is more loved than he is, and always shall be now.

Still, it is very pleasing to know that for all the people outside adore Ephraim, Ephraim chooses to spend his nights in Lyon’s bed.

Ephraim chose, of all the people in the world who died – even of all the people in just the _war_ who died – to bring back Lyon.

This isn’t happiness. Not really. But Lyon takes it anyway.

 

There are mutterings in the halls weeks before it’s actually begun as a formal motion; in truth, Lyon had expected it since the moment he was crowned Emperor.

He still shakes. What would Father think of him now? What would Father think of any of this?

“I see,” Lyon murmurs, nodding. The cowards tremble before him, ever wary of the Demon’s rage – for a moment, Lyon is tempted. It would be so _easy_.

But He is gone now, and Lyon is a poor substitute.

Ephraim’s heard about it before dinner; he storms into Lyon’s office in a mountainous rage, practically a storm incarnate.

“They want you to _abdicate_?” he snarls, all fury and anger and passion.

Lyon shrugs. “It’s perfectly reasonable. I did almost-”

“That wasn’t _you_ ,” Ephraim snaps, “that was never you.”

Lyon wants to get up, pull Ephraim’s head down and whisper, oh so gently, _but it was_.

He doesn’t.

“It was still my fault,” Lyon says, because it was. Entirely and completely his fault, and even Ephraim can’t deny that.

“You’re the _Emperor_ ,” Ephraim says, insistent, like it matters.

And Lyon just replies, “And you’re a King,” and part of him delights in the way Ephraim flinches like Lyon’s struck him.

Ephraim rallies; “It’s not right,” he says, turning sharply on his heel and starting to pace, “they’re blaming you for things you’re not respon- you didn’t do. You’re doing your best to make things right now, doesn’t that _matter_? Don’t they care?”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Lyon replies. “I always was a poor Prince, and now I am a poor Emperor, to say nothing of the things I’ve done in the interim.” Lyon laughs, self-deprecatingly. “If I were in their position, I would ask myself to abdicate too.”

The look Ephraim gives him is one of abject betrayal. Lyon can’t bring himself to feel guilty.

 

“You can still fix this,” Ephraim says, desperately, that night. “ _We_ can still fix this.”

It’s a pretty dream. Ephraim has a lot of those, these days.

 

The end comes sooner than Lyon expects. He wakes in the circle of Ephraim’s arms, and knows that the world is ending.

It’s hard to think over the screaming. Ephraim dresses the pair of them, forcing robes over Lyon’s head and yanking on a pair of thin jerkins and a shirt. His hand wraps around Lyon’s wrist, half around the bracelet, until it cuts into the skin and Lyon hardly registers the pain.

When they burst out of the castle, Ephraim stops.

“What....” he gasps, frozen.

The ground is split open before them, rent as if a dragon three times the size of any in Darkling Wood had clawed it open. The earth’s blood is welling up, orange-red and blazing hot; already people and houses have fallen into the gaping wounds, and still the ground is shaking.

“This is what I saw,” Lyon murmurs, softly, and Ephraim’s grip on his wrist gets even tighter – he yanks Lyon away from the hole, and they run.

Grado burns around them, and they run.

 

They stop on a hill. Lyon’s panting, shaking, and Ephraim is wild and covered in ash – they look no pair of princes any longer.

They can still hear the screaming.

Lyon looks back.

He’s not sure how long he stands there. Eventually, he becomes aware of Ephraim’s hand in his.

They don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

It really had all been utterly pointless.

 

“Come away with me,” Ephraim says.

“Where would we go?” Lyon asks.

Ephraim shrugs. “Everywhere, anywhere. We could do whatever we wanted,” and now he sounds like the boy who wanted to be a mercenary again, “we could _be_ whoever we wanted.”

It’s silly. A dream. Eirika will cry, will weep. It’s cruel, but then, Lyon’s come to realise that he always was a cruel person.

He takes Ephraim’s hand, smiling, and says, “Let’s go, then.”


End file.
